I don't really Floor Host at my job. 'Floor Hosting' means you set up champagne rooms, sell bottles and get idiots fake strip club money on their credit cards. I rarely get to do any of those things any more. I'm more or less kept around to do the jobs no one else wants to do. Like drive the bus, work the door and sweep the dead strippers into the drain at closing time.
And I'm of two minds about it. One one hand I feel like I'm achieving my goal of having as little interaction as possible with as few people as I can manage. The bus especially is a social wasteland except for brief bouts of bachelor parties and the odd hammered out-of-towner.
On the other hand I hate when it comes time to divvy up the tips and I'm consistently one of the low earners because I so rarely get the opportunity to try to hustle up some tips from drunk morons with expense accounts. I feel like a Father that can't provide for his family, except that my children are guns and I can't afford to have any more of them nor feed the ones I already possess.
It's like some kind of moral struggle within me: I enjoy not being around people, yet people are what I need to make money. It is a paradox, wrapped in an enigma, inside a colostomy.
And shit.
In related news, I keep falling into the same work ethic trap of not being able to say "no" to my managers. My parents really fucked me good with this one. I remember one time when my Dad had wrecked his motorcycle and the whole side of his face was like a shattered can of cat food. He looked like Ahnold in The Terminator after half his face was shot off; a complete mess.
Did my Pop call off work? Nope. Did he take time out of his busy day to have his sloppy-joe face tended to at a medical facility? Certainly not. He was too busy trying to pay his bills. It was only when his face swelled up so bad his eye was closed and weeping tears of pus that he went to the hospital where they just barely managed to save his eye.
Was my Mom any better? Nope. She came down with mono hepatitis one time when I was about 9 or so. Although it was clearly killing her she never missed a shift. It was only when her supervisor stopped her and said "You're too sick to work" that Mum agreed and fell to the floor and got seventeen I.V's immediately rammed into her to save her life.
"
This is the programming I'm up against. My parents almost had to be forced at gunpoint to miss work and indoctrinated me into this irrational mindset. I liken it to being Catholic: you know what you've been taught is bullshit, but you've been force fed it for so long that you can't help but believe it.
So when management asked me if I could cover a kitchen shift tonight because our latest alcoholic/junkie cook had gotten thrown into jail for throwing a tire iron at police during a drug house raid, my brain said 'no' while my fingers typed "yeah, I guess so" #cunt #fuckyourquesadilla.
The further complications of growing older, or shit my prostate says.
When I was younger and I really, REALLY had to piss, I could cut plywood in half with my stream. It was like a golden hued plasma cutter issuing forth from my otherwise unremarkable member. Nowadays, even when I need to piss URGENTLY, I'm lucky if I could rinse off a dinner plate at two feet.
I don't know how large my prostate is right now, but I'd bet it's much bigger than a walnut at this point, in fact I'm thinking coconut or casaba melon. And while it doesn't hurt, it makes a huge deal out of routine urination and I think it conspires with my colon to cause me undue social anxiety.
That being said here are some conversation/arguments I've had with my prostate recently. Please bear in mind that for reasons unknown even to me, my prostate speaks with a thick Scots accent.*1
ME: I can't help noticing that you've been lacking in oomph and sending mixed signals lately. Is there anything you want to talk about?
MY PROSTATE: Whatturye implyin, ya greet fat chairwhale?
ME: Well, you know. Frequent urges to go, disappointing muzzle velocity, phantom pee notices. Stuff like that. I was just thinking that maybe it's all a bit premature.
MY PROSTATE: Tell yoo whut, lad. Next time ye fiel the need tae dispoorage mah werk ethic, why dooncha carve yer coomplaint oonto a parsnip and shoove it oop yer fookin arse! That way I'll be shure tae read it.
ME: Christ man! I'm just sayin! No need for all the hostility. We're in this together, OK?
MY PROSTATE: "We're in this toogettir, OOH-KAY!" (in a high mocking voice.) That what yoo soond like. Quit bleatin like a weddin night ship*2 and deal with yer elder pooberty!*3
ME: Goddamn. You are one angry pink ping pong ball, my friend.
MY PROSTATE: Aye. I am at that. Don't make me crool oota yer wee pahthetic willy, freeclimb your greet, stinkin toorso and slap seven kinds of shite oota ye. Cooz I'll doo it. Ye ken I wull.
ME: Oh you'll climb me, will you? And how do you intend to do that? I'm like 80% sure you've got no fucking hands.
MY PROSTATE: I'll use veins and whatnot then, woon't I? Maybe I'll even drag yer puir, mismatched boolz aloong wit meh and use em as sticky boots. What'd'ye tink o'that?
ME: I think you're a monster!
MY PROSTATE: AAAAAHHHH-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!
I hope you've all enjoyed this installment's lurid depictions of my travails and feel better about your life after reading it. Be here next time when I reveal some strip club secrets they don't want you to know and tell you about the latest strippers I've worked with who have since died horribly.
Until then, cheers mowwa-fakkas.
-Uncle Herdy
*1 Just like my wang, Wee Willy Wallace.
*2 Ship: Sheep. Sorta like tomato/to-mah-to.
*3 Elder Pooberty: What Scot speaking internal organs call the changes that happen to middle aged folks. Like menopause and manopause.
